


and to hold

by Clo



Series: your hand in mine [3]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Secret Marriage, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 08:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10850667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clo/pseuds/Clo
Summary: Turns out, secret marriages are complicated. Andy's worried, Novak's faking it like a pro, and they maybe should've thought this one through.(Or, the one with the wedding night and their inability to talk about their feelings without messing it up)





	and to hold

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who got a notification about this and thought it was the next part of before you come to evening, I'm very sorry. I started this during the last chapter of that as a quick, sweet cure for writer's block and then it was almost done so I thought I'd finish it. No one expects Andy Murray to dump a bucket of feels on them out of nowhere.
> 
> This is the third part of the 'your hand in mine' verse, but chronologically it takes place after the second ('once upon a december') and before the first ('the coming of the fall'). You can read them as standalones, but the posted order probably works best. I wanted to write this because at the end of 'fall', there's major decisions made quickly and it's obviously not the first time they've talked about it; I wanted to see how they reached there, and the reasons, and how everything might circle back toward that moment.
> 
> Please scroll to the end of the fic for warnings.

The winter evening is slipping toward true night by the time they stumble into Cromlix's largest suite, Novak blithely ignoring balance – not to mention common decency standards – by biting Andy’s fucking earlobe as they try to make it through the door without untangling themselves.

It wrenches a groan from Andy, startled out on a flinch that has his shoulder colliding with the doorframe and fuck, he hopes none of the other guests glance into the hall to check the noise. The entire hotel is booked out for the wedding so there's no strangers or lurking journalists to worry about, but if any of Andy's family spot them it'll be an embarrassing family-gathering anecdote for _ever; t_ hey're already disheveled all over, flushed, with Andy's three top buttons undone and stray gold confetti lurking in Novak’s hair. There’s probably some in Andy’s hair too, decorative glitter that won’t hide where it’s gone curling at the ends from nervous hands rubbed through, from Judy ruffling it in affection after the photos.

Novak slamming him against the wall halfway up the grand sweep of stairs and tangling his fingers in it to pin Andy still as he kissed him probably didn’t help either.

Now he’s moving to kiss the tempting dip of Andy's throat revealed by the ruin of his shirt collar, licking at the gleam of sweat there. Barely twitches when Andy pokes him in the ribs with a protest, voice thready:

'No- let me shut the door at least Novak, fuck.'

'That is the idea,' Novak murmurs and keeps kissing as Andy manoeuvres them around to push the heavy door closed, keeps biting just the right side of too-hard until Andy makes a choked sound, gritted through clenched teeth in an effort to mute it and in the distraction, shoves too hard.

The instant the door slams shut – probably waking the entire hotel, shit – Novak twists like an eel in his grip and drops to his knees.

'Novak, what the fu-' Andy starts. Most of him is already focused on the indulgently-oversized bed a short stagger away and everything he's going to do to Novak when he gets him stripped, work out the burning desperation of a night spent swaying on the dance floor under the not-quite-drunk-enough stares of friends, Andy’s family; _touching_ had been out of the question if either of them wanted to look his gran in the eye again. Arousal's been simmering beneath his skin for hours and now they've finally lost the audience he can't wait to get his hands on Novak, they don't have time for-

Far more coordinated than anyone who’s drunk so much champagne has any right to be, Novak flashes him a grin, flips up Andy's kilt, and swallows Andy's dick all the way down before he can finish the sentence.

‘Fuck, _fuck_ -' Bracing his arms against the door, Andy curses until he runs out of voice and shuts his eyes. If he watches Novak's mouth going slick as he moves, all liquid grace and the sure press of his callused hands over Andy’s hips through the bunched kilt wool, he's going to come faster than a teenager.

Might anyway. Novak’s been getting steadily more tactile as the day slipped past, the practiced polish to his smile chipped away by degrees until he was tucking a laugh into Andy’s jacket during the first dance, all the tension eased out his shoulders. Watching him relax soothed (some of) the worry knotted beneath Andy’s ribs, the anxiety that’s stalked him ever since he blurted out, ‘ _Marry me?_ ’ before he could talk himself out of it – but it’d done nothing for the flicker of something white-hot that sparked in his stomach when he’d first seen Novak at the door of the chapel, flawless suit and pale silver tie a match to Andy’s like they’d already been marked out as a pair.

That heat didn’t fade but banked higher, hotter, with each staged kiss for the photographs, every stumbled brush together on the dance floor, and the endless charming smiles Novak produced for Andy’s family (even though most of his own weren’t there, not a flicker of resentment beneath his polite small talk), until Andy had to excuse himself to the toilets off the hotel lobby, lean against the door of a locked stall and dig nails into his palms to bring himself under control.

Anxiety or not, it’s been one of the best days of his life, Novak Djokovic standing up in a room full of people Andy cares about and declaring _yes, I do, I love Andy the most._

But it’s also been a very fucking _long_ day _._

From down on the floor, Novak slants him up a glance through his lashes. He can’t grin with his mouth full of Andy’s dick but the amusement lurks around his eyes, in the teasing flutter of his throat as he hums. Probably _Auld Lang Syne_ after Jamie spotted them sneaking out and insisted, drunkenly loud and barely holding back laughter, that they couldn’t leave until they’d sang in the new year. Only Aly towing her protesting husband away by his ear and flapping an indulgent hand in Andy’s direction saved them another excruciating few hours.

If he’d known Novak had this planned, Andy would’ve dragged him upstairs right after _I do._

‘Nole,’ he says, rough over the breathlessness and the warm, complicated knot of affection in his chest. Not a demand or a question, but Novak’s lashes flutter in acknowledgment of the nickname Andy saves for special occasions, whispered between them like a secret behind closed doors where it won’t spark two dozen articles and awkward press conference questions. The pressure of his mouth tightens until Andy has to close his eyes again and swallow the pleading sounds that want to claw their way out, leaning more of his weight into the door to stay upright. Heat chases over his skin beneath Novak’s grip on his bare thigh, on the hard curve of his hip through the bunched kilt and lights flicker behind his eyelids at the frisson of teeth over a sensitive spot, making him gasp and Novak instantly hums an apology, tongue soothing the spot. Andy’s every muscle aches with the effort of holding still and not thrusting into Novak’s mouth, harder than pushing himself to make a winner after five long sets; he can feel his knees shaking as the orgasm builds and builds, until he can’t remember what breathing feels like, until the world greys out beyond the confines of this, of Novak’s mouth and the soft, wet noises trapped between them.

Then Novak _swallows_ and Andy doesn’t have time to warn him before he breaks; he comes with a jolt and a ragged gasp, in a flood that feels like it’s washing away weeks of tension, wiped clean under glittering relief.

Well, mostly. The anxiety’s still there when the rest of it fades, drifting back to himself to find that he’s leaning precariously against the door breathing hard, still standing more from his knees refusing to unlock rather than any conscious effort.

Much like the rest of the day actually, tripping along from ceremony to dancing to blowjobs without being entirely clear on how it was being orchestrated. He hadn’t focused on the minutae all that much since his mother found him sitting on her lounge floor at three a.m. two weeks ago, staring blankly at Cromlix’s wedding brochure with Novak sprawled fast asleep on the sofa behind him, breathing hot and soft against Andy’s shoulder. Judy’d given him The Look, the one that promised (every time) that this, this thing, was the _absolute last time_ and within twenty-four hours they’d had a guest list, and an itinerary, and a draft of the apologetic letter going out to all the hotel guests who were going to have to find somewhere else to spend New Year.

Andy was just glad to let someone else tell him where to stand and what to say. He can run sprints in the Miami heat, or play Roger on a godlike day, or survive bursting into tears in the middle of Centre Court but this was a different dance entirely. If someone else handled what kind of cake they were eating, he could focus on not stepping on anyone’s toes.

And on Novak – currently still on the floor and scrubbing his mouth carelessly on his shirt sleeve, smirking up at Andy as he falls back against the door with a groan.

‘My knees are thinking perhaps they will not survive so long being married if this is how we treat them,’ he complains. Carefully, he eases himself sideways to sit cross-legged and flashes a suggestive grin. ‘Next time, we make it to the bed first yeah?’

‘I can’t imagine why we didn’t think of that this time- oh _wait_ ,’ Andy says drily. The swathes of fabric Novak’s wearing now do nothing to hide that he’s still hard, and letting his panic drown in the orgasm-afterglow Andy drops down to kneel in front of him, reaching for the kilt hem rucked halfway up his tanned thighs.

As promised, Novak had walked down the aisle in a grey suit, understated elegance and colour a compliment to Andy's blues and greens, his dark jacket. But after, after _I do_ and photos posed in the Scottish mist in the gardens because both Novak and the photographer insisted it'd look romantic (Andy's protests that catching pneumonia was only romantic in BBC costume dramas had been overruled), Andy had looked around from his gran's hug to find Novak had disappeared. It wasn't until his mum wandered over to ask if he'd seen Jamie that it clicked and he'd been waiting when they sauntered down the stairs, grinning like canary-eating cats, Jamie changed into his smartest suit and Novak full-on Scottish down to the long socks and sporran.

He'd appreciated it at the time. He appreciates it a lot more right now without zippers or buttons to get in the way.

Except, Novak knocks his hand aside, shaking his head. Sweat's soaked his once-crisp white shirt to him, gone transparent over all his slender lines and Andy thinks in this moment, pulled apart from his careful tailoring and panting, mouth worn red from sucking Andy off, he's never looked more beautiful.

'No handjobs,' Novak mumbles, head tipped back against the door. 'We are married, we have standards to keep up now. All fucking, all the time.'

Letting himself grin, Andy settles himself more comfortably on the carpet. 'What?' he asks, teasing to distract from the steady progress of his fingers, drifting up a bare, sweaty curve of thigh, 'fucking _all_ the time? On court? During interviews?'

'Always,' Novak says without opening his eyes. 'We should look for new sponsors who make lube, promise them we will be great advert. Also I know you try to touch my dick, I can feel you cheating.'

If anything, Andy moves his hand up faster. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'I mean your hand _on my dick,_ that is che-ah, _ah, cheating_!'

'Mmm.' Watching Novak's mouth fall open on breathy, desperate sounds as he pushes into the sudden friction, Andy feels his grin stretch toward wickedness. 'Right. So why aren't you stopping me?'

In response Novak groans, rocking up in earnest now as Andy's hand moves beneath the soft, scratchy wool. There's already a wet patch soaking through, more streaking through Andy's fingers underneath warm and slick, easing the friction of his palm.

Still- 'No,' Novak gasps, stumbling over the English, 'Andy no, but is not my kilt Andy, I promise to give it back, ah, _ah-_ '

Dipping forward Andy presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, feeling the heat of Novak’s ragged breathing. He smells like champagne and sweet cake marzipan, faintly of fresh sweat and sex beneath and Andy kisses him again because he can, because they're married and he almost believes now that they’ll get to do this for the rest of their lives.

Not quite, but almost.

'Jamie knew the fate of his kilt when he lent it to you,' he says into the kiss. 'He'd only burn it if you gave it back. Did he tell you not to wear underwear?'

'Ye-yeah.' Novak shivers all over as Andy lets his fingers squeeze, rubbing his thumb against the tip, pressure in all the places he knows turn Novak on. 'He- say it was how to wear. I think he joke but you also, you have none and if I had known that, I don't know if I could not've touched- oh god, _there,_ keep doing that, just that and- _Andy-'_

With a choked sound he arcs up and comes into Andy's hand under the kilt, soaking the checkered wool as he keens into Andy's mouth, toes curling against the carpet.

 _Oh well; the outfit was ruined anyway._ Andy gives a mental shrug and keeps working his hand through the slick, cooling mess; he knows Novak likes the over-stimulation, likes the burn across every nerve-ending until his entire body sings with it and Andy loves the sounds it tears out of him, helpless, all his careful facade disintegrating into needy, wordless begging against Andy’s mouth.

It’s not something they get often, so much of their time snatched from the tour and rushed before the next match, the next flight – but last year in a rare few days spent alone together between tournaments, they'd locked themselves in the house in Surrey (detached, well-soundproofed by thick walls and wide gardens) and he’d brought Novak to the brink, kept him circling it for hours until he was almost howling with it, bleeding where he'd bitten his lip and wound up to snapping point. But his hands stayed where Andy had pressed them above his head, fingers knotted white-knuckled in the pillowcase as he let himself be strung out and opened up, grinning at Andy through his curses, the tears that streaked his face when he finally came.

It was after – when he'd fallen asleep with his legs tangled in Andy's, curled together in the mess they'd made of the bed and his heartbeat slowing beneath Andy's palm, making soft, snuffling sleep sounds into the crook of Andy's shoulder – that Andy had stared at the ceiling until dawn crept through the tight-shut curtains, sleepless, and realised with wonder shading into terror that he’d give anything – trade Slam trophies and the millions in his bank account, raze cities to the ground if asked – to keep this. How much it _mattered_.

And some-unbelievable-how it's his now, word and contract. And ah, deed, as Novak finally makes a protesting sound and Andy slides his hand away, wiping sticky fingers over the ruined kilt.

'Jamie's not usually on board with it but no underwear is traditional,' he admits, picking up the thread of conversation. Novak lifts an eyebrow, although he’s too breathless for his tone to achieve peak sarcasm.

'Scottish weather and no underwear? Frostbite is also traditional yes?'

‘Maybe our balls are just tougher than everyone else’s’,’ Andy says, to prompt the flash of Novak’s skeptical grin. Now they’ve taken off the edge of desperation, tiredness is creeping into the lines around his eyes and sinking him bonelessly back against the door, legs tucked up to one side in a way that’s going to give him cramps before long.

Andy considers dragging him up, manhandling them both to the sinfully-comfortable bed that’s _right there –_ and instead slides around, carpet burning his shins, to slump shoulder-to-shoulder against the door.

‘We are both going to be aching until Australia if we stay here,’ Novak protests and undermines it immediately by turning in, arm curving around Andy’s waist and letting his head fall against his shoulder. He’s running a shade off too-warm, all rumpled cotton and the soft brush of his hair that smells of Andy’s shampoo and Andy decides the excuses he’ll have to make to his team if he aches for the entire season will be worth it, kissing a noncommittal hum against Novak’s forehead instead of moving.

From this position he can see most of the suite, tidied and refreshed since he’d got ready what feels like days ago. It’s set out as a lounge with bedroom and bathroom leading off, their bags left neatly beside the plush ivory couch. There’s a foil banner reading _Congratulations!_ strung over the mirror, slightly crooked and Jamie must've broken in while they were downstairs because there's also a garishly gold-leafed bottle of champagne on the coffee table, more gold confetti drifted around and- yes, that's a goddamn Durex box, because Jamie has weird ideas of brotherly responsibility even when he's taking the piss.

The bedroom door is open wide enough for him to see one corner of the four poster bed, freshly made. It looks beautifully comfortable and also very far away.

'I think my ass have carpet burn,' Novak mutters, ticklish into the dip of Andy's collarbone. 'How will I sit at changeovers now? Married less than a day and already you are bad influence.’

‘Already? I must’ve learned from someone pretty good at bad-influencing in the last decade then. Can’t imagine who that’d be.’

‘Hah hah, he must also have taught you the sense of humour, no?’ Idly Novak drifts his hand across the strip of bare skin where Andy’s shirt has come untucked, waistcoat long since unbuttoned. His fingertips scratching through the trail of rough hair where it disappears beneath the kilt has Andy shivering pleasantly, his dick suggesting it could be persuaded into a second round if the sensation keeps up. They’ve got an early flight they can’t miss so lazy morning sex is probably out, Australia and real life beckoning; making the most of tonight sounds like a strategy he can get behind.

But Novak bypasses the obvious direction. Instead he reaches over to catch Andy’s left hand where it’s resting on his hip and tug it closer to him, squeezing insistently until Andy tangles their fingers together. His are slightly thicker than Andy’s, blunter and bronzed gold with sun where Andy’s stay stubbornly pale, but otherwise they’re mirrored; the racquet callus at the base of Novak’s palm, cutting through the lifeline, is Andy’s, the worn-hard fingertips intimately familiar.

And now the silver-platinum ring on Andy’s left fourth finger is a mirror too, a match for the one on Novak’s. He’s not used to it yet, the rub of body-warm metal still disconcerting when he’s never worn anything there before, and there’s a sense of disconnect as he watches Novak play with it, polishing the silver with the pad of his thumb. Marked out as taken, tied together by this as much as shared history.

‘What will you do with it?’ Novak asks. He’s still resting his head on Andy’s shoulder, warm and tactile, relaxed but there’s an edge to the ostensibly casual question that makes Andy hesitate. ‘You cannot wear it often, no?’

Curling his grip around Novak’s restless fingers, Andy frowns down at the problematic jewellery. He hadn’t thought much about it, not even the simple design; his mum had sorted them to avoid any awkward questions, Andy barely glancing down when she’d showed them the black velvet box a few days ago. It’d just been something else to tick off the haphazard, last-minute-marriage list.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I’ll wear it, it’s only -’ – actually, between tennis and _secret marriage_ , the ubiquitousness of paparazzi in their lives, _only_ covers pretty much his entire life except the space between rolling out of bed into the shower, and the times when him and Novak are actually fucking.

‘I don’t know,’ he repeats. ‘Maybe I’ll see if Kim wants to do what you and Jelena did, tell everyone we got married quietly and didn’t want a fuss.’

‘Mmm.’ The noncommittal hum Novak makes tells Andy what he thinks of that suggestion – understandable, because it was a bad one. Jelena hadn’t been pleased with the extra subterfuge or the party they’d thrown to distract from the actual lack of wedding vows and she’s still reluctant, icily polite to Andy when they pass in hallways at tournaments – but Novak’s parents had been making suspicious noises for over a year and it was the best distraction any of them could come up with at the time.

It still bothers Novak, Andy knows, evident in the way he spoils Jelena with extravagant gifts and the unhappy lines around his eyes whenever they have to pretend for the media. Maybe if they’d thought it through at the time, they wouldn’t have let it go so far. Too late now; a faked divorce would bring more problems than it solved. At least being fake-married already means Novak can wear his secret-married ring in public...which hardly makes this all less complicated.

Briefly, Andy wonders what the record on discovering marriage regrets is. Probably less than a day. They must’ve done better than couples getting drunk-married in Vegas, although perhaps that would’ve been better. At least then they’d have an excuse.

‘Do you want me to wear it?’ he asks, trying to get a grip on the anxiety coiling in his gut. ‘I could put it on a necklace, and then no one would see it.’

Novak’s laugh is barely an exhale, huffed tiredly against his neck. ‘Until the first time your shirt fly up in practice and then it is all the questions you would be having. I do not mind if you not wear it Andy, is not so easy.’

‘So you’d rather I didn’t wear it?’

Oh and letting that slip out with an irritated bite to it was a mistake, only realising when Novak pulls back sharply to pin him with an intent look.

‘That- that is not what I say,’ he says. There’s an uncertain tug to his mouth as if he can’t quite force a smile, picking over the words as carefully as testing an unexpectedly-slippery court. ‘Would _you_ prefer not to wear it?’

Andy hitches a shoulder and curls his fingers over to hide the silver band.

‘No. Yes. I mean, it’s just a ring, does it matter? I’ll keep it in a pocket or something.’ To escape from Novak’s frown, he levers himself stiffly upright against the door and starts shrugging out of his clothes as he crosses over to their bags, suddenly flushed too hot in the warm room. His jacket gets tossed toward the nearest chair, followed by the waistcoat, one polished shoe disappearing beneath the sofa as he kicks them off and he makes a mental note to rescue it in the morning (that he knows from years of packing in a hurry, he’ll most likely forget).

He’s yanking his tie loose when arms go around him from behind, stilling his hands in a firm grip.

‘Is this a fight?’ Novak asks, muffled against Andy's ear and almost conversational, lacking any irritation. He’s pressed warm all up the line of Andy’s back, holding on just tight enough that Andy would have to make an effort to wriggle free. ‘I am only checking because if so I am not clear on why, or what is it about, and if it is our first married fight I want the full experience yes?’

Andy sighs. ‘It’s not a fight, Novak, it’s- a discussion. That we’ve decided, I won’t wear the ring, it’s fine. You want to let go so we can shower?’

‘When did we decide this?’ Novak demands. Instead of loosening his grip, he leaves his left hand tangled in Andy’s around his tie and slides the other down, pressed hot over Andy’s stomach and stopping just short of letting his fingertips creep beneath the waistband of the kilt, just brushing bare skin. They’re so close, he must feel the shiver Andy can’t hold back. ‘All I hear was myself say is I don’t mind but you, clearly you mind.’

‘I don’t mind, _you’re_ the one who-’

Too late, Andy bites the sentence off. Novak’s gone still against him, grip tightening over Andy’s hand until Andy can feel the impression of his wedding ring digging in; there’s tightness climbing up his throat, prickling behind his eyes, that he recognises all too well as disappointment in himself. Made it barely a day and of course it’s entirely unsurprisingly that, faced with the world’s press and armies of stalking fans and Novak’s mother who sometimes looks at him with a faintly calculating expression as if trying to match up disconnected jigsaw pieces, the thing that upset the entire marriage plan was his inability to keep his mouth shut.

When Novak speaks it’s dangerously soft, brushed over Andy’s cheek.

'I am the one who _what_ , Andy?’

Well it was a nice illusion while it lasted, that he might get to be happily married to Novak for more than five minutes. Staring at the wall opposite, Andy manages to shape the anxiety that’s stalked him all day from the raw, scraping sensation in his chest into something vaguely coherent, stumbling out:

‘Look it’s okay – I saw the way you looked this morning when you walked in, and you’ve been a bit weird all day you know, so I thought-. If you’re having second thoughts now we’ve- I mean, I know we kind of fell into this without thinking it through and it’s my bad, I didn’t mean to rush you into anything, _especially_ marriage-’

Mid-fumbling sentence, he’s spun around so fast that the room blurs. When he can focus again he wishes he hadn’t because it’s on Novak’s furious expression, anger suddenly lighting him up with a flush across his cheeks and eyes narrowed, glittering through his lashes.

It’s an incredibly inconvenient moment for Andy to be reminded how fucking attractive he finds Novak and how disappointed his dick is with him right now. It’ll just have to join the rest of him which is resigned to disappointment nearly all the time.

‘Because I seem to be missing something,’ Novak says, flat and biting off his English words the way he does when he’s having to make an effort not to lapse into angry Serbian, his mouth pulled in tight at the corners, ‘explain to me _please_ exactly what I mind?’

Faced with an incandescent-with-rage Novak Djokovic, Andy knows from experience that he doesn’t have the eloquence in any language to talk his way out. All he can do is settle for honesty and he looks away with a shrug, trying, failing not to let misery fold him inward beneath Novak’s grip on his shoulders.

‘This morning,’ he says, feeling it rasp raw in his throat, ‘when you walked in. I saw your face and I knew-’

 _Knew I'd fucked up,_ he wants to say, the words hitching over a break in his voice. Knew that somewhere on the long list of wedding minutae that he’d been ignoring was: ‘ _make sure that Novak is still happy about this_ ’ with an empty checkbox beside it.

Which is unforgivable. Even when it’s been a long, terrible year and he’s been miserable for so much of it, seen the sideways glances and the concern crinkled tight around Novak’s eyes every time he came back to the hotel with another trophy stuffed in his tennis bags, trying to pretend neither of them cared. The way Novak blew off family and training and sponsors to be waiting in Andy’s bedroom after Ivan, after the Wimbledon quarterfinals, curled up asleep against the pillows until Andy stumbled over and kissed the guilt from the corners of his mouth, mute apology in the way Novak gave himself up to Andy’s desperation without complaint, never hesitating that he might ache for tennis the next day or acknowledging the exhaustion shadowed across his face.

And this, Andy demanding this huge complicated thing on top of all that and Novak whispering _yes_ through the haze of champagne, reaffirming it with a groan and a hangover the next morning when they woke still tangled together on the floor of Andy’s living room, was just one more thing in a year of giving Andy anything he wanted in return for his tennis being _awful._ Something he’d barely considered until he’d seen the headlines, Scotland suddenly making it possible and he’d not thought it through, just _wanted_ – but Novak acquiesced so easily Andy had almost believed everything, this insane upheaval of their lives, wasn’t going to be a problem.

Believed it right up until he’d looked past the tailored suit and the flush of pleasure that Novak had turned up (rather than hightailing it back to Monte-Carlo overnight like in Andy’s vague dreams , tossing in his too-big hotel bed alone). Andy'd been halfway to a smile, squinting through the sunrise filtering into Cromlix’s cosy chapel–

– and Novak’s wide-eyed panic met him from the doorway, tucked behind the rigid smile he puts on for awkward interviews and 6 a.m. drug tests on a rest day. The look he wears when he’s forcing himself into something unpleasant, and seeing it there – at that moment – the bottom dropped out of Andy’s stomach as if he’d been punched, because he’d wanted but it looked like maybe Novak _didn’t_.

Unable to look at Novak when the afterimage of that panic still lingers, imprinted behind his eyelids, Andy stares at a patch of mid-air over Novak’s shoulder instead and swallows until he’s sure his voice won’t crack.

‘I saw you, you looked like you were going to your own execution, yeah?’ he rasps. ‘Like you’d suddenly realised there was no emergency exit and it was too late to tell me that _secret marriage_ was the worst idea you’d ever fucking agreed to and you wanted _out_.’

Which would be a pretty sensible reaction to this idiotic situation, Andy could hardly blame him. But because he’s kidded himself for a month that this was a mutual decision, and because if this is going to end he’d rather be ripped apart quickly than die by inches, he makes himself look up. If Novak's still angry – if there’s an utter refusal there, because Andy’s wrong and Novak’s going to be furious for being doubted-

Novak’s staring at him and the truth is in the guilt written all over his face.

Something in Andy that’s always been certain, the foundation of fumbling kisses in the showers of junior tournaments and this tantalising, complicated thing with Novak that’s underpined his entire life – cracks.

‘ _Andy_ ,’ Novak says as he pulls away sharply. ‘Andy, wait-’

'Why?' Andy snaps around the vicious, tearing hurt in his chest, backing away. ‘If you didn’t want this, you should’ve _said_. I’m not fucking fragile you know, I’m getting pretty good at taking knock-backs this year. What’s one more?’

Andy,’ Novak repeats and it skates the edge of exasperation this time. He reaches out, trying to catch Andy’s arms but Andy shies away, bumping against the sofa. ‘Would you only listen-’

‘ _Why_?’

Andy means it as, _why,_ _when it’s too late_ but changes his mind, despair multi-purposed and he turns his back on Novak so he doesn’t have to watch the raggedness in his voice register, can pretend Novak won’t look at him with wide-eyed sympathy that always feels like sandpaper all over his skin. The words come out crushed thin by the weight on his chest when he says,

‘What did you think would happen? That you’d wake up tomorrow and want to be married to me? Did you think I’d _want_ you to be miserable, for what? To make me feel better?’

Because he’d seen that look in the chapel this morning and he’d gone light-headed with panic, thought _we need to talk about this –_ but his entire family was watching him expectantly and he’s stood on-court after being crushed by Novak in four Slam finals, ignoring the worried uptick in Novak’s voice every time he mentioned Andy in the interviews because they couldn’t let the countless millions of people watching _know_ they’d be fucking this time tomorrow, so he’s pretty good at keeping a handle on his misery when he’s in front of an audience. He’d stood there, frozen with an awkward smile and tried to remember how to breathe.

If Novak had kept looking like that though – if he’d stumbled coming up the aisle, Andy’d thought wildly, he’d find an excuse to drag him outside for a minute, keep calm and just _ask_ -

But Novak walked toward him without hesitation. He’d smiled, tentative but honest, when Andy cracked a poor joke, and his hand crept into Andy’s as the registrar ran through the script in front of them, familiar and barely trembling at all – and Andy, selfishly, desperately, suppressed the kneejerk urge to call the whole thing off. Tried to tell himself he’d imagined it because it might’ve been the mirrored flash of his own panic at how awful this could turn out for all of them with just one whisper to a journalist, one off-the-record comment potentially upending everything.

And anything that goes wrong will be Andy’s fault. This was his idea, his inability to comprehend life without Novak and his want to solidify this thing between them that’s been nebulous and snatched from real life for so long, that almost slipped through their fingers a few years ago when Andy lost again and again and it was almost always Novak’s strained smile looking back at him from across the net. He knows he's selfish, bad at letting go of the things he loves but he wanted, too, to show Novak that this meant more than Slam finals and arguments in the locker room, show how much this last year meant _._

He'd not let himself think too hard, until too late, that this going wrong might be worse then anything that could happen in tennis because this was _the rest of their lives._

The rest of his life. If Novak was forced into this by- by _pity_ , maybe he won’t want to stick around at all.

The first brush of a hand against his shoulder makes him flinch. Because Novak knows him inside and out, he ignores it; his fingertips trail lightly down Andy’s arms without gripping, ticklish through fine cotton, and by the time he’s tangling their hands together, his mouth is hot on the back of Andy’s neck and Andy’s leaning back into his solid warmth because Novak’s always known how to be three steps ahead when Andy’s still thinking about pulling away.

‘If you have finished catastrophizing, may I set record straight now?’ he asks. His mouth brushes the wedding-trimmed hair on Andy’s neck, setting off a shiver and he must hear the half-hiss of breath from Andy at the sensation because he drops a kiss there, pointedly, before continuing, ‘Or have you already decided on how I feel?’

‘It was pretty obvious from your face-’

‘You know,’ Novak snaps, anger spilling over again, grip flexing around Andy’s hands, ‘for someone who think research is all important for tennis, you do nothing but assume about all else. If you think I don’t want this, truly, you would not ask to start with so this is- what? Trying to make me say now oh no, Andy is too difficult? Give me an out?’

‘No, I don’t-’

It’s too much to try to think with Novak literally breathing down his neck and Andy twists free, Novak letting go for him to retreat a few, unsteady steps to stand half-turned, clenching his fists around the memory of warmth, unable to make himself glance back because he doesn’t _know_.

‘I just don’t want you to ruin your life over something you don’t want,’ he finally settles on saying, voice hoarse.

‘So you ruin it for me, is the idea yes? Win by making sure you lose?’ Blowing out a huff of frustration, Novak swears softly under his breath. ‘Do you not think it is my choice, if I think you are worth ruining my life for?’

Andy’s startled into looking up. He finds Novak staring him, level but there’s a quiver around the curl of his mouth that suggests genuine hurt.

‘You worry about this all day,’ Novak says, quiet, tone making it inarguable. ‘I see it, it sit right here-’ – he taps the bridge of his nose, between his eyebrows exactly where Andy wears his frown – ‘every time you look at me and _I_ think maybe you have second thoughts, maybe think is all too much.’ He pauses, smile crooked and uncertain. ‘Do you think it is bad sign that neither of us just _ask?_ ’

Andy swallows. His chest feels like someone’s hollowed it out with careless hands, raw and jagged at the edges. ‘Probably.’

‘Mmm. Well, is easy fix.’ Putting his hands on his hips, looking fond and familiar and entirely ridiculous with his kilt bunched up lopsided, shirt half-unbuttoned and socks tumbled around his ankles, Novak gives him a challenging look. ‘Andy. Do you want to be married to me?’

‘What, I- well- yes?’ When his voice wavers, Andy clears his throat and tries again. ‘ _Yes_. But-’

‘No, now is your turn!’ When Andy only stares at him blankly, Novak makes a prompting _hurry up_ gesture. ‘You say, “Novak, do you want to be...”’

Bewildered, Andy almost makes a token protest – he’s still shaking with the impulse to make this a fight, restless and unsettled with it. But he knows Novak, knows the labyrinth that is _arguing_ with Novak and that sometimes it’s easier just to concede the point.

‘Novak,’ he says, the words scraping out, ‘do you want to be married to me?’

‘Yes!’ Novak interrupts almost before he’s finished, spreading his hands palm-up as if to say _see_ , as if that’s his _point_ even when Andy’s still not sure where he’s been outplayed. ‘Now we double-check, we are married, everyone is happy and we have early flight tomorrow, do you want to fuck or-’

‘Whoa.’ Andy catches him by the shoulders when Novak moves toward him, invading into his space and going for a kiss like a conqueror. As if that’s it and there’s nothing more to discuss.

Briefly, Andy considers going with it – it would be easier right now to gloss it over, press Novak down across the crisp sheets and bury this anxiety in the aching stretch and heat of him, the tumble of helpless sounds he makes every time Andy slides in –

But it’d be nothing more than a misdirection, the bitter tug of _but what if_ still there to eat away at them from beneath and he knows it’d be a mistake. They’d tried before, after all, when it was tennis and Slams and Andy doing exactly that, fucking instead of talking until Novak limped out on court, taking it and never protesting and wearing his guilt like a weight across his shoulders with every trophy he took from Andy’s hands.

‘Novak,’ Andy says with finality and watches the same guilt chase across Novak’s face, now. ‘What were you thinking this morning?’

Whatever Novak mutters in Serbian, it’s probably an approximation of _dammit_. ‘Are you sure you would not rather forget and fuck? I do that thing you like, with my tongue in your-’

‘ _Novak_.’

The look Novak shoots him can only be described as petulant, sulking in the way that occasionally earns him snide remarks in the locker room and Andy using his press conferences to soothe ruffled journalists, trying to fire-fight without being able to explain, _I’m sorry my boyfriend is_ _such_ _a handful._ Like everything else with Novak, sulking is an operatic production, all sound and fury signifying mostly a dramatic overreaction that he’ll regret as soon as he thinks it over, the next day or that night; more than a handful of times Andy’s been woken at three a.m. by a mouth around his dick and apology written across his skin with a slick, soft tongue and the mute press of fingertips, the soft hesitance when Novak kisses him after with the taste of salt and regret.

This time, it doesn’t take that long. The petulance gives way to something uncertain almost immediately, Novak’s shoulders pulling into a hunch under Andy’s hands and he glances down, studying the socks sliding down around their ankles, Andy’s one bare foot.

‘For starting,’ he says quietly, ‘I do not want you to take this as a request or any sort of sign I do not understand the secrecy – because I _do_ , I agree. All would be scandal if it came out and it would be bad for the tennis, we cannot be distracted and my- anyway, I only did not want to mention it in case you think wrong, worry I am not happy, yes?’

‘Yeah,’ Andy agrees warily.

For all his denial, unhappiness shadows over Novak’s expression. ‘But this morning,’ he says and hesitates, visibly steels himself. ‘This morning I walk in and yes for a moment I panic – _not_ second thoughts!’ he adds when Andy can’t stop a grimace, ‘Not for you, not for this, but I look at all the people there and I think, we never keep this secret. This will come out and there will be questions and I panic – just for a moment Andy, stop looking at me like that – and _then_ , then I am angry at myself.’

Perplexed at the shift, Andy frowns. ‘Hey I’m not mad at you for just _panicking_ you know, I’m pretty sure most people panic on their wedding day-’

‘No,’ Novak cuts him off. There’s a stubborn set to his mouth now that Andy recognises from old memories, filed away; Novak’s mostly got better at smiling for the cameras these days, much better than Andy at polished professionalism and apart from the occasional temper simmering over – which is always whip-sharp and sarcastic, bitter but not the same obstinate refusal as when Novak really sets himself up in opposition to something – he’s got pretty good at letting things slide. Where Andy tries to be unfailingly honest as much as possible, Novak prevaricates and laughs things off, keeping the hurt that really matters tucked out of sight behind his disingenuous smile.

Except, when he decides something is worth a stand. Andy knows he’s obstinate all the time, exhaustingly; in contrast Novak flexes and flexes and then abruptly digs his heels.

‘It is not fair,’ Novak tells their socked toes, voice still stubborn even when he can’t seem to look at Andy. ‘Why should I be worried when I marry you? I marry Andy Murray; most people should think that is impressive, that I do pretty okay for myself! I should not have to sit in a press conference after I lose, you lose, and pretend it is only tennis. I should not need to make Djordje promise not to tell, make up lies about training, it’s not _fair_ -’

And Andy _gets_ it, finally.

As Novak’s voice goes out of shape with misery, Andy remembers the photographer asking if they wanted their families all together or separate, Novak’s arm tight around Djordje when he deferred to Andy for an answer. Novak's efforts to charm every member of Andy's family and that, although the guests sat on both sides of the chapel, intermingled, the only other players there were there for Andy and Novak’s shrug when Judy asked him, weeks ago, if he wanted to add any names to the list, the way Andy’d thought at the time that it was because he didn’t really care – when if he’d taken more than a second to consider it, he’d have known that was bullshit; Novak loves an audience, has plenty of close friends on tour who he probably would’ve liked to invite.

Would’ve liked to and didn’t, in case they told-

‘Shit,’ Andy mutters. Nothing he can say when his own family’s been easy-going and accepted Novak like a second son without hesitation, teased and thrown confetti and in general acted like they don’t see a problem with Andy marrying his main tennis rival. His main, _male_ tennis rival.

Instead he pulls Novak into a rough hug, Novak folding forward into him with a choked sound that he muffles into Andy’s shoulder.

‘No matter what they say, I am not ashamed to be married to you,’ Novak says after a minute, not lifting his head. It’s fierce all the same, bitten off short. ‘I am not ashamed to be in love with you. You are worth being in love with.’

 _Jesus_ , Andy thinks. Stricken that he’d missed how much this mattered to Novak and warmed all over by the admission all the same, and deciding that he really has to be kissing Novak _right now._ Reaching up, he curls a hand into Novak’s hair and tugs him close enough and it’s only when they break apart breathless minutes later that he feels the shape of his wedding ring, a solid reminder against the softness of Novak’s hair.

It’s all the reminder he needs; he’s already made the decision, really, made it the split-second before he asked the question.

‘If you want to go public, we can,’ he offers, pressing it between half-kisses into the lush heat of Novak’s mouth and he feels Novak’s sharp intake of breath. ‘I don’t want anyone to think we’re hiding. We can call a press conference in Australia. Or fuck I’ll tweet it right now, where’s your phone?’

Novak’s gone still, hesitating without pulling back. ‘I do not want you to do it and regret, Andy. That is not why I bring it up.’

‘I won’t regret it.’ Andy’s sure, even around the trembling where his hands rest at Novak’s waist, gripping bruises through his shirt. ‘It’ll be a nine day circus and we’ll get sick of questions about it and we’ll probably have to burn down the _Daily Mail_ offices if we ever want any peace but I don’t regret marrying you. Fuck everyone else.’

‘I rather think the point of being married is that you cannot do that last thing,’ Novak points out with a flicker of his usual teasing. ‘But also-’

He hesitates, takes a shaky breath. ‘I appreciate the offer, I know it is not easy. But it would not solve it for me you know, just the telling. They would still be angry with me and then all the other problems we have also, affecting our tennis.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘ _I_ care,’ Novak says reprovingly, softens it with a kiss brushed to the corner of Andy’s mouth. ‘I care if you do not win more Slams because you have journalists shouting at you from breakfast to night. I care if this affect tennis and we regret it later, when we still have this but no more tennis. Only one of these things can wait, you know?’

Andy does know, and it’s a perfectly logical argument; it’s the one they’d discussed before, sideways and without acknowledging the alternative because it seemed ludicrous at the time, to walk out in front of the world’s press and announce this when they didn’t have to. When they’d been hiding for years anyway and there was no reason to change that because of a ring and a piece of paper, how the fundamentals of them and the way they work would carry on just the same after.

Still, now he’s had the option pointed out to him – why it matters, why it matters to _Novak_ – he thinks this might be something worth being stubborn about.

‘Fine,’ he concedes and waits for Novak to slump, almost imperceptibly, before he adds, ‘But when it won’t interfere with tennis. Or when we feel like it, or one of us needs to, or the first time we forget and kiss over the net on Centre fucking Court, you should know that I’m okay with it. I may punch a few journalists but that’s what I have a husband for, to bail me out of jail yeah?’

The hiccup of breath from Novak is startled, his grip going tight on Andy’s hips. ‘Oh,’ he breathes, and Andy thinks it’s for the anytime-anywhere offer of honesty, until Novak says, in a tone verging on quiet awe, ‘I forgot, now it is _husband_ ,’ and Andy laughs, feeling lighter than he has in weeks.

‘Glad you noticed,’ he murmurs and draws him back in, all solid, familiar curves beneath the tattered remnants of his kilt, licking into his mouth until Novak makes a needy little sound into the kiss and curls a hand around the back of Andy’s neck to make it deeper. The wedding ring on his fourth finger is a cool touch, smooth wide band that he’ll wear in plain sight and Andy thinks with the distant part of himself not distracted by Novak getting his other hand under Andy’s kilt, that he’ll have to come up with a way to wear his too. He doesn't want to tuck it in a pocket or a drawer; it matters, unexpected but now he's finally noticed the details, he wants to get this right.

‘I love you,’ he says before he can reconsider – doesn’t say it often, never overly-sentimental and it usually sits awkwardly when he tries to get it out. This time though it’s easy, natural as breathing and Novak catches it in the kiss, his smile curving against Andy’s mouth.

‘Of course you do,’ he murmurs, laughing. ‘You married me. Now, about that thing with my tongue...’

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: implied background homophobia (from Novak's family) and discussion of it.


End file.
